


we're renegades riding

by bankita



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: M/M, guido mista's significant lack of self preservation skills, incredibly fraught teen drama, spideypeople au, tags to be added as i add to this, there will be more characters. if i can keep up with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bankita/pseuds/bankita
Summary: Narancia has a secret: he has a crush on his best friend Mista and also he got bit by a radioactive spider so now he has a new secret identity as Naples very own masked vigilante Spider-man. What's his problem? Mista only has eyes for his alter-ego and he's got a penchant for stupid and dangerous activity.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Narancia Ghirga/Guido Mista
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	we're renegades riding

**Author's Note:**

> technically i wrote this for naramis week 2020. the day one prompt was au or stand and i'm pretty obsessed with this au so i went with au! you should not expect the rest of this fic to necessarily follow with the rest of the prompts.
> 
> uhh. i'm not sure what else to say. i have no idea how writing i do for this au is going to play out because i don't have a lot of experience writing anything that's not one-shots. i'll try to keep some narrative cohesion to this at the very least and this specific work is going to focus on the naramis centric stuff for this spideypeople au and if you are curious about it: it's kind of a collaborative effort i am working on with my good friend @beansnake on twitter! so if you wanna see stuff for the au you can follow them and also me at @PROlETTILE

Staring daggers into the clock of their shared dormroom wall does nothing to alleviate the mounting mix of worry and aggravation that rises in Narancia’s stomach, clinging tight to the back of his throat and leaving him with a nasty taste lingering on his tongue. His brows furrow and whatever silence he’d been trying to feign is thrown away as he finally lets out a strangled noise of frustration that he’d been trying too hard to hold back, falling back on his bed and scuffing his feet against the carpet of the room as he kicks at nothing in a pathetic attempt to feel better.

It does nothing to help and, not satisfied with the response, Narancia repeats the actions: make a noise of frustration, roll over, kick at nothing, noise, punch a wall, roll over-

There’s the sound of a snap that cuts through the relative silence outside of the fit he’s spent the last few minutes throwing and Narancia pushes himself up on his elbows, casting a bored look across the room to his roommates desk and being immediately greeted by a red in the face Fugo holding a broken pencil in hand.

“Can you STOP throwing a temper tantrum like a fucking child? It’s not going to make Mista get here any faster, Narancia!” He snaps, all bark and probably a lot of bite if Narancia isn’t careful with how he responds.

Narancia isn’t careful. He lets out another groan, falling back onto his bed on his side of their shared dorm and starts punching at the wall behind him.

“He never takes this long to get here, Fugo!” He whines and, not unexpected, something is thrown at him- a small and round pink object hitting him hard in the face and bouncing off to the side.

“He just got a new job over at Libeccio, you dumbass! He takes ten more minutes than usual probably because of work and you act like it’s the end of the world! Your crush is so horrendously transparent it’s actually fucking insufferable.”

Like a flint sparking against steel, a bright flame of anger burns bright in the pit of Narancia’s stomach and squashes down his other feelings. He scrambles back up into a sitting position, grabbing blindly around the bed until he’s found the object he’s looking for and gripping it firmly in a tight fist. Narancia chucks the eraser right back at Fugo’s head, letting out a bellowing laugh as the younger boy launches up from his desk.

The only thing that stops him from getting into Italy’s pettiest fist fight with Fugo in the middle of their dorm is the sound of the door clicking open, both occupants stopping dead in their tracks when a head of short curled dark hair poking out from a stupid striped beanie poking from around the corner. There’s a stupid grin on Mista’s face, as usual. It was rare to see him not smiling, but what immediately takes Narancia’s attention is the beginnings of a bruise forming under one of their eyes and a split in their lip that’s no longer bleeding. It’s obviously recent if the splatters of red amongst the blue of his jacket are anything to go off of.

Obviously Narancia wasn’t the only one to notice because whatever anger Fugo had been directing at him seconds prior has faded away as he speaks.

“Jesus, Mista. Are you okay?” The concern is evident in Fugo’s voice and it leaves Narancia feeling a little more stupid than usual for just staring wide-eyed in surprise.

His brows knit together and he offers up the most eloquent response he can muster.

“Dude, you look like fucking shit.” Nailed it. Good job, Narancia. He’s quick to mentally chide himself and speak again, offering up words less harsh and more laced with concern, “What happened?”

Mista laughs the two of them off, shutting the door behind him. It sounds normal, maybe Narancia’s reading a little too much into something for once in his fucking life, but he swears that he doesn’t hear Mista’s heart in it. Cagey as he is, Mista is one of those people who became easier to read the longer you knew him.

“You should see the other guys. If you think this is bad you’ve got no idea.” The bravado in his voice is real though, the way he boasts about how two guys jumped him on his way back to his shitty apartment on the poor side of Naples and how they never stood a chance against a lucky guy like him- it’s all real.

Narancia rolls his eyes as Mista plops down next to him and as Fugo strides across the room to go get his first aid kit and they fall into their assumed normal. All jokes and jabs made in friendly jest.

It’s their normal, sure, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate a creeping feeling a guilt that crawls under his skin. A little voice in the back of his mind whispers to him that he could’ve done something. But all Narancia can do for now is play along, point his finger and laugh and call Mista an idiot to mask his concern.

It’s the same scene a week later.

Narancia sprawled out on the floor, eyes trained up on the ceiling, Fugo at his desk attempting to study, and a Mista who promised he’d be over an hour ago (maybe it was even starting to verge on two but it’s not quite like Narancia had been bothering to keep up with the time) but was notably absent from their dorm. That same echo of concern, of heavy weighing worry sits on his chest like a stack of sandbags, making it hard to breathe.

Something is wrong. Something is  _ definitely _ wrong. There’s no reason it’d take Mista quite this long to get here if something wasn’t fucking wrong. All the luck in the world could only get you so far in life when you have as much stupid and reckless abandon as Guido I-Got-Hit-By-A-Car-And-Lived-So-Clearly-I’m-Indestructible Mista.

However much longer he spends moping on that train of thought isn’t important because he knows he can’t just fucking sit around like an asshole. He’s quick to get on his feet, quick to stride over to his closet, throwing it open with too much force as he rummages through the disaster zone of clothing haphazardly thrown around on the ground and hung up with no orderly rhyme or reason.

“You think something happened to him again?”

Fugo’s words aren’t given a response as Narancia finds what he was looking for: a bright orange and purple spandex suit folded carefully in a box in the darkest corner of the small closet. In his rush to change, he bangs his knee and shoulder hard against the wall but it’s hardly important.

As he pushes the single window to their dorm open, Narancia barely processes the fact his younger roommate is yelling something at him. He pulls his mask down over his face and throws himself out of the building.

* * *

  
  
Living in the poor part of Naples has its perks. Rent was cheap! You know what, maybe that was all that it had going for it considering the shitty state of his apartment and the fact it was becoming harder and harder for Mista to make trips back to his apartment after work and before heading over to Narancia and Fugo’s dorm without someone trying to pick a fight with him.

Someone had obviously spread the word he got a gig working in the nicer part of the city at Libeccio, shit goes fast on the streets especially when the prospect of someone making cash is involved. It’s either people begging for spare change or groups of thugs that think they can take what they want by force. The first was easy to ignore. But the second? Not so much.

And the bastards were infinitely more persistent.

Mista gets it, of course. It’s not like he hasn’t beaten up his fair share of dudes for spare change over petty shit. He’s lived through some incredibly rough patches even before officially dropping out of school, this was getting excessive.

It was always the same gang of stupid blond assholes too, never the same guys, but everything about their appearances indicted that they knew each other and that they really didn’t like that Mista kept beating up dudes in their ranks. Not like it’s his fault when they’re the ones who keep fucking with him.

Usually they just fuck with him in pairs of twos. Two is fine, he can take two guys on his own. Hell, he can even take three all by himself with all the luck he has on his side. Today, though? As if God himself has forsaken him: there’s four blond punks that’ve cornered him in an alleyway.

It’s not a fair fucking fight and maybe the numbers involved have gotten him a little more uncomposed than he would regularly be, but all things considered he manages pretty well on his own. 

At least for a little while. He gets his good share of hard punches in, manages to duck and weave and evade hits to the best of his ability but in a numbers game of four: of course he’s always bound to lose. One of the guys manages to get up behind him a grab his arms, the stupid lugs managed to be smart enough to actually coordinate effectively and Mista gets the full force of a hard kick driven into his gut and the cold laughter of a group in his face as he tries to fight back the wave of nausea that washes over him.

“Don’t let him go, got it, Rico? This bitch has been causing us way too many problems lately so we can’t let him off easy.” The tallest guy out of the group speaks, barking out commands at what Mista can only assume are underlings now.

The grip of the one holding him back strengthens and Mista struggles fruitlessly against it. He’s about to throw his head back and try to headbutt the guy when the blond in charge grabs his chin with a firm grip, staring deep into his eyes. The guy has an ugly fucking mug and Mista has half a mind to tell him as much but the guy pulls out a switchblade and starts waving it in his face with his free hand.

“You got a pretty face, you know that? Weird that a guy like you is living in this part of the city.” He taunts and his tone is all fake casual in a way that just pisses Mista off.

Like, if he’s gonna stab him just get it over with! What is with guys who get a little bit of power and suddenly think they’re worthy of villain-like monologues.

“But hey, you fucked up the faces of a bunch of my guys. It’s only fair I repay the favor. I’ll slash your face up real good and you’ll fit in with the rest of the freakshows with no future in the neighborhood-”

Ugly’s shitty monologue is cut short by a long strand of white shooting down from the sky above and yanking the dude's knife out of his hand before he can even process what’s happening. He lets out a noise of confusion melded together with indignant rage as his attention, along with Mista’s and the rest of the blond grunts shoots up.

There’s really no time to process the short and lean figure in orange and purple spandex that drops down, foot planting directly in the boss kid’s face. He lets out a pained yell as he falls back onto the concrete, hands that had previously been holding a knife and Mista’s face now cupped over his own ugly mug trying and failing to cover a very bloody broken nose.

There’s a beat of shocked silence from the three lackeys as they stare wide-eyed at the new figure who has entered the fray. After seconds spent processing, the fact their boss just taken down like it was absolutely nothing dawns on them. The tight grip that had been holding Mista’s arms in a vice is suddenly gone, the thugs quick to flee the scene.

Admittedly, that same grip had also been at least ninety percent of the force keeping him on his feet after that hard kick to the gut. Mista falls to his knees, the masked figure quick to hurry over.

As if processing his lackeys are gone, Ugly shouts a bunch of muffled and nasally profanities. At who? It’s hard to tell, in fact it almost doesn’t even sound like the guy has any particular aim with them. Maybe he just needs to get off his chest that he’s pissed his underlings abandoned him like garbage on the side of the road and a masked vigilante dropped from the sky and fucked his face up in one artful kick.

Mista kind of wants to laugh, but he’s in way too much pain and is still fighting back throwing up, so he doesn’t.

“Fucking Spider-Man!”

Whoa what? At the words Ugly spits, Mista’s head shoots up in alert surprise as he turns to look at the masked stranger who’s currently turned away from him to face the bloody blond teen rambling on the ground. He holds his arm out, underside of his wrist up and pinky and forefinger extended as he shoots a web directly over the punks mouth, successfully managing to make his already muffled words completely incomprehensible.

“Shut the fuck up! Guys like you and your shitty friends who ran off are the worst! You think you’re hot shit but you’re just jerks!” There’s something eerily familiar about that tone of voice, Mista thinks, but he can’t quite put his finger on it and is far too focused in staring at the spandex wearing figure in general.

Ugly was true to his word at least. Upon taking a closer look without a bunch of punks surrounding him and threatening to beat the shit out of him and steal his money, there’s no doubt that this is the same Spider-Man who’s been making the news around Naples lately. Bright orange and dark purple with yellow highlights. 

Getting rescued by a superhero in the eyes of some, a punk vigilante in the eyes of others- it sparks a little something in the back of Mista’s head. Something of remembrance. Shit, he may as well be the damsel of his own fucking romcom in life. He’s not gonna complain about that, masked bad boys who fight crime were the “in” thing these days, after all! 

Maybe he’s a little too lost in that train of thought, because Spider-Man is squatted down in front of him and waving his hand right in his face and Mista’s only just processing it, and he blinks stupidly.

“Yo, you alright man? You’re not, like, concussed or anything? You know you’re not the one I kicked in the head, right?”

Mista can’t stop himself from the little laugh that slips through, his shoulders shake for a second before the pain of getting his shit beat up by four guys catches up and he winces and curls in a little on himself.

“Ugh, no. Yeah. I’m good. Sorry. Just.” He fumbles over his words. Incredibly smooth, Guido. “You’re Spider-Man?”

Oh Christ. He looks like an idiot. He’s making a complete ass out of himself in front of a local legend. The hero looks tense for a split second, there’s a stiffness to his shoulders and his head tilts as if he’s studying Mista carefully. Whatever he’s looking for, Mista isn’t quite sure and just offers him a perplexed look. After an awkward moment passes Spider-Man shakes his head, pushing himself up into a standing position and holds a hand out.

“Yeah. That’s me.” His voice is a mixture of practiced cockiness laced with something akin to hesitation, if the curtness of the statement is anything to go off. “But I’m a little more concerned about you. Can you get up? I’ll help you get back to your place.”

Hand still outstretched, the orange spandex clad hero taps his foot, shifts his weight onto another leg in a gesture that screams ‘ _ come on, I don’t have all day’  _ before Mista’s brain fully catches up with him and he reaches up, clasping the hand in his own and letting himself be helped back up.

With some careful maneuvering on both their parts, Guido Mista finds himself with his arms wrapped around Spider-Man’s neck and the heroes arm tight around his waist to hold him up while the hero slings webs to fly between the tall and cramped apartment complexes of the slum of Naples.

It’s an experience that he can’t quite put into words completely, but he thinks he knows enough about this kind of thing from all the romance movies and telenovelas he watches to know two things for sure.

The first? He’s absolutely fucked. The second? This isn’t going to be the last time he sees Spider-Man. He’s going to make absolutely sure of it.


End file.
